Smoke Without Fire
by by-nina
Summary: Roy Mustang returns home from the military academy to find his old master dead and his future drastically changed. Still, fate puts him on a path forged by flames. An FMA canon divergence AU.


_A/N: HAH, it finally happened! Welcome to_ Smoke Without Fire _, an FMA canon divergence AU set during the Ishvalan War and following the early military career of our favorite flame alchemist(?). Aaand all I know right now is that this will definitely be a long one. I'll be feeling around this one for a while, but I hope you guys enjoy and stick around!_

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Roy Mustang bangs at the door of Madame Christmas' bar, beneath a relentless storm. He trembles from the cold and the exhaustion of an unplanned eight-hour trip from the East to Central, his body on the verge of giving away as his mind runs a thousand miles per hour. The windows are obscured by the darkness and water running down the glass, but even though he isn't sure if she's awake, he knows to keep knocking.

Sure enough, a warm light is switched on inside not two minutes later. Roy hears them; two voices talk, and two sets of footsteps diverge, one disappearing into the building, and the other approaching the door with an urgent quickness. The door opens to reveal Madame Christmas, dressed for bed but alert as ever. One look reflects that she understands the gravity of his presence, and so he explains:

"Master Hawkeye is dead."

Her lips stretch into a taut, grim line; shock fills her eyes. She beckons Roy inside, and he is an oddity as he stands in the middle of the bar: soaking wet, heart pounding, eyes weary as he finds the approximate location of the wall clock, near the staircase. Madame switches on another light. It is nearing three in the morning.

"Sit down," she says tersely, pulling out a chair at the table nearest Roy. He slowly sinks into the chair, still reconciling the sudden warmth coming from the cold outdoors as he drips from his hair and his clothes and his suitcase. Madame quickly joins him. "How did it happen?"

Roy runs his palms over his face. Slowly, he begins: "The townspeople said it was an accident, about a year ago. The master must have been working on his flame alchemy research, then it went out of control."

His mind conjures up the images as he speaks. The charred bones that remained of his old master. A wealth of ancient alchemic texts and research, all in ashes. It was all gone; he had seen none of it when he arrived where the Hawkeye manor once stood, yet it still feels as if he had been there to watch ruthless flames engulf it and its sole resident.

"A flame alchemy accident?" Madame lights a cigarette, then takes a long pull from it. Her eyes narrow in thought. "Berthold Hawkeye never struck me as a careless man. But someone as devoted as he was to his craft would've been…"

 _Mad_. Of course he has considered this; it is the easiest way to explain the reclusion of one as brilliant as his old master. "I know the kind of man he was. It never got in the way of his brilliance in alchemy. It was the one thing that defined his life more than anything. Still, he was all alone. He never even had any enemies or rivals, as far as I knew."

"He was never a State Alchemist, is that right?"

"Yes." Guilt twists Roy's stomach. "He wanted nothing to do with the military. I can imagine what he'd call me if he could see me now."

"Hmm. No ties to the military. No enemies. And his family?"

Roy pauses in thought. He searches his mind, further back than the incident, back when he had studied under his master. In the Hawkeye manor, where his master, pictures and personal memorabilia had been sparse, and his master hardly talked about his own family; Roy thought better than to ask. He clicks his tongue in frustration as his mind moves back to a more recent recollection, during which he had searched for townspeople who might've known the details of the accident. He slowly forms his answer.

"They never returned. I don't know if they know what's happened." He looks up at Madame, his features heavy with desperation. "I don't even know where they are, or..."

"Or if they're still alive." She says it matter-of-factly; he doesn't protest.

Smoke fills the room as Madame exhales. Roy wearily watches the cloud slowly unfurling above his head. He turns to look at her; her face is peculiarly illuminated, half by the street lamp reaching through the window and half by the warm glow coming from across the room. She has never appeared as old as she does now. Madame Christmas is not a very old woman, but the lines presently on her face seem to have been etched by the weariness and wisdom of someone who has watched several lifetimes pass by. She stares far ahead, past the window and the rain.

"The war hasn't been kind, Roy. In four years, I haven't come across a single soul that the war hasn't found its way to. Every single one—every man who has walked into this bar, and every girl in my care, whether they're from the East or elsewhere in this country—everyone has lost something to the war." She takes another long pull from the cigarette. "Sometimes, it's a home. Sometimes, it's family. Perhaps, in the old master's case, it was everything."

Roy sinks further into his seat, yet at the same time, he feels distant from his own body, anchored to the present only by his fatigue and her solemn words. What the master had lost, he had lost as well. What had been lost in the fire was everything he had learned and everything he had yet to know about the flame alchemy he had so longed to study when he returned from the academy, despite the disdain his uniform would have drawn from his master.

The thunder rumbles outside, wind spattering rain against the window, as if it were a cruel reminder of a fire that had been doused in him.

"I'm sorry to hear all this." Madame Christmas puts out the cigarette on the surface of the table. "I wish there were more I could do for you, but it's gotten hard to move around on our own since the war began. Although, if you're staying, you know your room's always ready."

He manages a weak smile. "It's all right. Thank you, Madame. You're doing more than enough."

She smiles back warmly, and a positive feeling flickers in him for the first time that day. Despite his uncertainty about his master's fate and his own, he gladly acknowledges what is certain before him: the familiarity of this place he had grown up in, Madame Christmas' welcoming presence, and a delicious, sweet smell wafting faintly from upstairs, perhaps around his bedroom, just as it always did whenever Madame prepared for his return home.

"The tea must be ready now," says Madame. "Come on up, Roy-boy. You've had a long day."

Roy rises from the table, suddenly very aware of how heavy and tired he feels, and now sore from the cold left by the rain. Without much effort, he lets his anxious thoughts slip away, unable to devote any more energy to thinking about them at present. He follows Madame upstairs, not a thought in his mind other than the warm cup on his bedside table and his worn but still very soft sheets.

He blinks out of his thoughts of rest as they reach his door, and a young woman emerges from his door, a tray in hand—she must be no older than seventeen. Roy frowns, having known well the girls working for Madame all through his life, and right now unfamiliar with this young woman's voluminous black ponytail and round eyes.

"Sorry for the trouble, my dear," says Madame. "You can get back to bed."

Roy bows his head a little. "Thank you. I don't think we've met."

The young woman smiles. "We haven't, but it's nice to meet you, Mister Mustang. I'm Elizabeth."


End file.
